


Regrets, Salt, and Pearls

by Her_Madjesty



Category: Much Ado About Nothing (1993)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Mild canon divergence, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27367741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Her_Madjesty
Summary: He has never been partial to weddings. Now, with the morning sun beating down on his shoulders and sweat dripping down his back, Don John finds he likes them even less then he remembered.
Relationships: Hero/Don John (Much Ado About Nothing)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 18





	Regrets, Salt, and Pearls

**Author's Note:**

> I blame perennial.

He has never been partial to weddings. Now, with the morning sun beating down on his shoulders and sweat dripping down his back, Don John finds he likes them even less then he remembered.

He tucks his hands behind his back and assumes a soldier’s stance, the air buzzing with mayflies and unwarranted excitement. To his right stands his half-brother, and a breath further, the husband-to-be. If he lets his gaze linger on poor Count Claudio, he can see the boy starting to chafe beneath his starched collar. It is almost enough to ease the resigned irritation that days like this one bring.

(Of course, it is on this tedious day and in this tedious line that Don John benefits from perhaps the only show of solidarity these two men might ever offer. Even the soldiers who called him brother would be reluctant to put themselves shoulder to shoulder with him, and now he stands as part of an impenetrable wall with those parties that ought to distrust him most.)

(He takes no comfort in his position. Even as a brick, he finds himself false, standing scant centimeters between an onlooking eye and those disingenuous secrets that can make or break their families.)

Ahead, there is the altar, and on it, Benedict. The man tosses a carefree smile to two of the three soldiers at the back, ignorant, it seems, of the pain in the grimace that Don Pedro offers back. Don John does not shuffle, but the younger of the bucks does not seem able to resist the urge.

They wait, in the midst of this crowd, this heat, and the stirring strings of Lord Leonato’s bard, for an unknowing victim. As the doors that bar her from all of Messina open, Claudio straightens – and Don John lets out a breath.

Hero walks down an aisle made of dirt and grass, her father bright with relief on her arm. The crowd around them rises to greet them both, a perfect mirror of the happiness on both of their features.

Don John nearly pities them – well, no. Not _them_. Hero, perhaps.

He has an inkling of how this farce will play out. As soon as Claudio denies Hero his hand, there will be a tussle. Don John well intends to step away from the scene courtesy of the horse tied not far down the road. His presence, after all, will not be missed; there is no ghost in all of Sicily who travels more lightly than he. His brother’s men, after all, already scorn him. He is, just now, present on mere formality; determined to see his scene through and required, by that unfortunate stain of blood, to stand with his half-brother through these ominous proceedings.

Despite the trail of his thoughts, it would be a lie to label them heavy. Thus, he does not label them at all. Instead, on a whim, he catches Hero’s eye as she approaches.

Like the kiss to the back of her hand, it startles her to feel the weight of his dark gaze brush past her, even for a moment.

She is a woman like any other, of course. The bright, untarnished look of youth in her eye sets her apart from her party, where Beatrice and Margaret walk with their years proudly borne. Should his intelligence be good, she is but a few years younger than him – but in that, still, they are years apart. She is a reflection of all of those things these weary soldiers used to be as young boys with unblooded hands. Claudio’s fascination with her could not have been avoided – a man would be a fool not to want some reminder of warm summers over cool nights on campaign.

For all those things that he can fault the men for, Don John can fault neither the young buck nor even his half-brother for that.

(What he does not say, as Hero approaches her altar, is this: she glows. He is a man, and he has eyes; her smile is pure Messina, with its golden hills and the warmth that threatens to lull even the hardest of souls into contentment.)

He looks away.

The friar comes to meet her on the altar. The moment of recollection fades. Don John lets his eyes carry on over the crowd as Claudio steps forward, one hand raised to capture Hero’s.

The wind picks up around the wedding bower. Don John takes one subtle step away from his half-brother and peers as the ordeal begins.

*

_Friar Francis: “You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady.”_

_Count Claudio: “No.”_

_Leonato: “To be married to her: friar, you come to marry her!”_

_Friar Francis: “Lady, you come hither to be married to this count.”_

_Hero: “I do.”_

_Friar Francis: “If either of you know of any inward impediment why you should not be conjoined, charge you, on your souls, to utter it.”_

_Claudio: “Know you any, Hero?”_

*

Here is the trick of war: skirmishes will reveal the mark of a man, be he your ally or your enemy.

Don John is not an old man. In the eyes of those societied parties, he is even quite young. But when he takes to the field, steel in hand, he paints himself ancient and useful; transforms into a thing that points and is pointed until the last of those who would oppose him fall to the ground.

Count Claudio is not this sort of man. Where many men in his compliment fight as they are bid, Claudio exceeds his duty. Don John has often lifted his head from the field to find the youth striking forth, blood marring his uniform as his reckless swings strike down his foes. It is not his effectiveness but his passion that endeared him first to Benedict, then to Don Pedro. It is that passion that Don John counted on, coming to him to forge him into the tool to conduct his half-brother’s demise.

And yet -

Well.

The violence at the altar is still a surprise.

Don John retreats another step as Claudio lunges forward. The wedding decorations fall before his purposeful hand, leaving the wedding bower echoing with the sound of splintering wood and glass. The lady Beatrice has flown to her cousin and now shields her with her body from the young buck’s wrath, but there is no saying how much good it will do. Both Claudio and Don Pedro continue their mutual tirade, matching bulls stomping about the broken scene.

(That sliver of pity settles in his gut like salt in an oyster, crystallizing into a short-lived pearl of disgust against his own kind.)

Perhaps he should have anticipated it. Now, though, there is no place for him to act. He stands, a stalwart ally to these two soldiers, even as he slips back, back, and back, to better watch the scene before him fade.

He knows not when his presence – or lack thereof – will be noted by the staff and reported, in turn, to Leonato. Until then, he trusts his lady’s tears to cover his retreat.

*

_Dogberry: Masters, I charge you, in the prince’s name, accuse these men._

_First Watchman: This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince’s brother, was a villain._

_*_

Leonato’s vineyards may make their homes in the mountains, but the port of Messina is not but half an hour’s ride from his gates. Don John abandons his horse and fine coat at a back-way hitching post and prowls the docks for that beast that might carry him onward. In the heat of the day, he contents himself to his shirtsleeves, looking for all the world a tar intent on finding his first passage away from home.

He speaks with many a captain, asking for their headings and aims. He promises a working hand, a suitable guard, but finds that even those most eager to take him on will not leave for at least another night.

He walks off of a ship called _Mercy_ with a scowl on his face and sour news in his ears. Word is spreading down from the mountains – the prince seeks his wayward brother, and Lady Hero has lost her husband. If he is identified by those captains who showed him sympathy, they may well leave without him, should his brother’s men not catch him first.

It is with that precaution in mind that he makes himself scarce. He takes to Messina’s smallest inn under a false name (though “false,” here, is a matter of perception – it is not his fault, after all, that Don Pedro never bothered to learn the name of the woman who mothered his father’s bastard spawn). There, he sets himself up in a dark corner and watches the street, where passersby mark the goings of the day even as light fades gives way to darkness.

It is not long before sunset that the first of the proper gossip reaches his ears. A laborer and a florist – attendees, he thinks, of that great failed wedding – make their way to the bar, where they pass tales and a bottle between the two of them.

“A shame,” says the florist, once he is deep in his cups, “so like her father in temperament, much, it seems, to her fault.”

“May God forgive her,” says the laborer, crossing himself, “else she suffer forever in Heaven and her father’s house.”

In his corner, Don John frowns. It is not that he did not expect these phrases, but rather anticipated them in addition to stricter condemnations of his peers. But the two men continue without so much a mention of neither Claudio nor Don Pedro – they toast, rather, to the cuckolds they believe to uphold the morality of men.

(Another image: Hero, arms braced above her head as Claudio rails above her, that glowing light of wedded bliss fading from her increasingly-jaded eyes.)

Don John rises from his seat, deciding himself content to take the rest of the night in his own quiet company.

With his first foot on the steps, however, church bells begin to chime.

The laborer and the florist freeze at the bar. The innkeeper cocks his head. It is he who goes out in search of news, while Don John remains, tense on the landing.

It takes several moments for him to return. When he does, he bears his hat between his two large hands.

“They say,” he reports to the listening crowd, “that the Lady Hero of Leonato’s state now lies dead.”

The florist gasps. The laborer rises.

“What happened?”

“Did her father -”

“Did she - “

The innkeeper raises his hands against the battery, retreating. “I know no more,” he replies. He draws a hand down his face, exhaustion settling into his already-wrinkled features. “But we are to mourn tonight, alongside those parties that may have once loved her.”

(By the time he looks up, the florist and the laborer will have tugged on their coats and made their way towards the door. A strange man, though, will linger on the stairwell, his dark gaze drifting off into middle distance. When the innkeeper may go to speak to him, he will vanish, his expression as inscrutable as the shadows but his footsteps thunderous.)

*

_Claudio: Done to death by slanderous tongues_

_Was the Hero that here lies:_

_Death, in guerdon of her wrongs_

_Give her fame which never dies_

_So the life that died with shame_

_Lives in death with glorious fame._

_Hang though there upon the tomb,_

_Praising her when I am dumb._

*

Don John has borne himself to many a funeral. This is not one that he will attend.

Even so, he watches Messina dress in black for mourning. Torches come to light in the night as families leave their homes to trek towards Leonato’s villa.

The innkeeper takes his leave with the rest of them, one of many who abandons his station in favor of watching the solemn penance demanded of Don Pedro’s favored soldier.

The distant lights can not give an onlooker any details, when facing Hero’s mausoleum. They say nothing of the shadows that dance there, nor of the words spoken, nor of the deadened expression on the faces of those citizens who traded a wedding for a funeral.

From his window, though, Don John can watch the torches douse. And while he does not regret what he has done, he cannot help but think on Hero, glowing – glowing –

And wonder.

*

_Chorus: Pardon, goddess of the night,_

_Those that slew thy virgin knight_

*

Morning comes.

Don John refuses an offered, too-familiar coat from the master of the inn. He makes his way to the docks while the air is still cool and boards the _Mercy_ with shadows beneath his eyes.

There is a note, blackened, tucked into his back pocket. He feels it as he nods to the captain, ignoring its burn in favor of the sting of rope against his hands.

He prefers this ambiguous crew to those once-ambitious soldiers. There is wine to be sold, or so they say, back on the mainland. There are spices to procure from the French and the Dutch. The captain’s expectations of him are low, as are the crews – for all of his posturing, Don John has no want to hide his disdain for their arrangement, leaving no man to question how short his tenure with the ship might be.

In truth, it is far shorter than any of them save for Don John might have imagined.

The ship has not yet weighed its anchor by the time Don Pedro’s men appear on the docks. Resignation builds in Don John’s breast as they tour departing ships, but he makes no move to hide himself.

He understands his fate.

His once-brothers place him in manacles on the _Mercy_ ’s deck. He walks from the ship with his head held high, disdainful to the end.

And yet, within the hour, he finds himself at another wedding.

Stowed off to the side, this time with a guard, he watches his brother and Claudio resume their posts, two soldiers back at war. Benedict, too, retakes his place at the altar, though his air is of a more nervous fashion.

When the brides appear – and they are many of them – they do so without a crowd and with their faces veiled. Not a one walks on Leonato’s arm.

It is a dark jest, Don John assumes, as Claudio’s face screws up in pain. He could almost commend it, feels that brief satisfaction burning in his chest -

But then it is the Lady Hero who removes her veil, and he is left as adrift as the rest of the men.

*

_Claudio: “Give me your hand: before this holy friar, I am your husband, if you like of me.”_

_Hero: “And when I lived, I was your other wife. And when you loved, you were my other husband.”_

*

(As they take him away from the wedding that isn’t – for Hero finds her old friend not to her liking – the blackened paper drops from Don John’s pocket. He does not mark it. Rather, even the shouts from Beatrice and Benedict and their happy nuptials are barely loud enough to drown out the thunderous beating of his heart.

There will be consequences for him, of course, and for Claudio, though the buck is already suffering. As they pass that mausoleum, though, that was meant to be Hero’s, Don John imagines his steps lighter – if only a little bit).


End file.
